"How old are you, Beatrice?" I asked.
The girl looked up and opened wide a pair of great tawny eyes.
"How old, Signore?" she repeated, in her low, husky voice. "Fifteen-a. Nex' moont' I s'all be sixteen-a."
"So old!" I commented. "Almost a woman. You'll be having a sweetheart soon; and what will your father do when he wants an angel?"
Again I saw of Beatrice only a veil of hair and a hand rapidly plying to and fro.
"No, Signore," she murmured from behind her screen. "I am not enough old-a. I s'all nevair marry. Who would tak-a me?"
"Anselmo?" I suggested.
I caught a gleam of the tawny eyes through the hair.
"I do not tink of 'im!" she expostulated.
"The other helper, then. What's his name? Giuseppe?"